DOCTOR AT SEA Read online

  The cargo came out by the exact reverse of the technique that put it in at Liverpool. As I had nothing else to do I joined Easter, who was watching crates of machinery being drawn out of number five hatch with the pleasantly indolent air of a Londoner observing road excavations.

  'Hope you've locked your cabin, Doctor,' he said. 'And screwed up the port. These boys would pinch the soles off your shoes if you wasn't careful.'

  I pointed towards the policemen on the gangway.

  'But don't they keep an eye on it?'

  'What, them vigilantes? Them's the worst of the lot.'

  As the winches paused I heard feminine giggles and zestful screams coming from the crew's quarters in the poop. A plump dark girl with a basket of washing under her arm appeared on the deck, struggling formally with a large sailor.

  'That's Maria,' Easter explained. 'She does your laundry for you. Three blokes got something off her last trip.'

  'What!'

  'Wouldn't mind having a go at her myself,' he continued solemnly. 'They don't seem to think much of things like that out here. All the girls is tenderhearted. I reckon it's the climate.'

  'It all seems very unhygienic to me, to say the least.'

  'Mind you, some of 'em's real smashers. Ho, I've had some fun here, I have. You going ashore to-night, Doctor?'

  'I might stretch my legs. Though I fear I shall do nothing more exciting than go to the pictures.'

  'Ah, you can get some queer pictures out here too,' Easter went on. 'Pal of mine went ashore one night to have his pleasure, as you might say, and the next day he went off with a crowd of the lads to one of them odd picture houses. Blimey, he was the big feature. Didn't 'arf get his leg pulled about it.'

  'I think I will go and see Mr. Hornbeam,' I said. Santos sounded a place that would have provided Easter with extensive reminiscences.

  Hornbeam's cabin was as full as a compartment in a suburban train in the rush-hour. There were the agents, the chief stevedores, the customs, the immigration officers, and a few unidentifiable officials. Hornbeam was sitting with his white shirt undone to the waist, looking pleased with himself. His table was filled with bottles of gin, whisky, and beer, and half a dozen open tins of Players. Everyone was helping themselves.

  'Come in, Doc!' he called. 'Have a peg. This is our Doctor, gentlemen.'

  'How do you do,' I said, taking a glass.

  'It's always open house in the Mate's cabin in port,' Hornbeam explained, pouring himself another gin. 'Everyone wants the poor bloody Mate. Now what about this trouble in number three?' he said to the head stevedore. 'Can you get another gang on there to-night?'

  'To-morrow morning, Mister Mate. Tonight, no good.'

  'We'll have to put up with it, I suppose.'

  He took a sheaf of papers from a ragged Brazilian who appeared in the doorway.

  'Cargo plans? All right. Have a peg, chum. Coming ashore to-night, Doc?' he added to me.

  'I thought of it. Are you?'

  'Certainly I am. Never been ashore in Santos yet. To-night I am. We'll collect here about midnight…

  'Midnight?'

  'There's no point in going anywhere before eleven in this part of the world. Nothing livens up before twelve.'

  'If that's the case I think I'd better turn in for a bit.'

  'That's the idea, Doc. You're in the land of the siesta now, don't forget. God, it's hot, isn't it?'

  ***

  I screwed the closely-meshed wire-netting in the porthole to keep the flies out and went to sleep. The Second woke me up about nine.

  'Coming ashore?' he asked. 'We're going up to the Mate's cabin. They sting you for drinks in Brazil so we reckoned we'd get a glow on us before we went off.'

  I sat up and rubbed the sweat off me with a sheet.

  'I'll be up when I've had a shower. The Mate's coming with us, isn't he?'

  Archer laughed.

  'I wouldn't know about that. I've never seen him get ashore anywhere yet.'

  When I reached the Mate's cabin I saw at once that he had not been taking a siesta himself. His visitors had gone and the bottles were empty. He sat behind a jumble of dirty glasses and cigarette-ends, humming absently to himself.

  ''Lo, Doc,' he said languidly. 'Fetch a bottle out of the locker there. I'm coming ashore with you young lads to-night. Keep you out of trouble, eh? Muy bien. Cheerio.'

  Archer and Trail were in the cabin, dressed in their shore-going rig. The scattered places in which they bought their clothes and their over-compensation for wearing uniform most of their lives gave them a startling appearance. Trail was particularly arresting. He wore a pair of green cotton trousers he had bought in Rio, a yellow shirt from Calcutta, the sort of sports coat that is, fortunately, popular only on the Australian beaches, suede shoes from Ceylon, and a tie with a luminous girl on it from New York.

  We all sat down and drank determinedly. 'Have to drink beer ashore,' Trail said. 'A gin costs about twelve bob. I got some cruzeiros for you, Doc.' He handed me a bundle of dirty notes. 'That's the sub you put in for. How about you, Mr. Hornbeam?'

  'Got some in the kitty,' he said thickly.

  He pulled a tin out of his locker and spilt the contents on the table. There was currency from all over the world-Australian florins, South African sixpences, nickels and quarters, escudos and francs, Canadian dollars, Japanese yen, New Zealand pounds, rupees, pesos, pesetas, and guilders, a few marks, and a couple of Pitcairn Island postage stamps.

  'Always like to have a bit of ready cash,' he explained, rummaging through the pile. 'No cruzeiros, though. What's this?' He held up a coin and squinted at it. 'Springbok ha'penny. No good. I'll take the dollars ashore and flog 'em. Don't you blokes go without me,' he added threateningly. 'I'll get a cob on if you don't wait. Where are we bound for, anyway? Have another peg.'

  The Third drew a small book from his pocket and turned over to the letter S.

  'Santos…' he said. 'Oh, that's fixed. We'll take the Doc to the Whores' Ball.'

  'The what did you say?' I asked.

  'The Whores' Ball. Funniest thing this side of the Line. It doesn't start till midnight. We'll look into the Ritz Bar first.'

  'I want to see the Bidu Bar,' Archer added. 'I met a hot bit of blonde in there last time.'

  'You game, Doc?'

  By this time my critical faculties were mildly blunted with gin.

  'Game? Of course I'm game. I'm a sailor, aren't I?'

  'That's the spirit!' Trail said. 'Down the hatch, lads, and let's get moving. It's after eleven.'

  'What about the Mate?' I asked. I turned to look at him. He was lying with his head in a pool of currency asleep.

  'It's always the same with the Mate,' Archer explained. 'He never makes it. Hasn't been ashore for years. It's best to leave him there until he wakes up. Now for the bright lights!' Trail put down his glass. 'Come on, Doc!'

  Singing softly we filed down the gangway and, slightly intoxicated, for the first time in my life I put foot on foreign soil.

  Chapter Ten

  There are few attractive cities in Brazil, and Santos is not one of them. In the centre is a fairly pleasant square with gardens in it, a new post office, and the Town Hall. It would pass for a little bastion of bourgeoisie in the South of France on a hot day. But the waterfront caters, efficiently, for different tastes. It is a tall line of buildings on a cobbled street that looks like the slums in Glasgow draped with neon.

  The Third led us jauntily towards a lighted doorway with RITZ BAR-DRINKS AND GIRLS shining over it.

  'Here we go lads!' he said. 'If our mothers could see us now!'

  The three of us piled inside and took a table by the door. It was a long room, brightly lit, with a bar down one side, a small dance floor, and a band. The walls were lined with foreign flags and signs such as WELCOMES TO OUR BRITISH FRIENDS, HAVE A SWELL TIME BABY, and WE TAKE POUNDS AND DOLLARS. The room was full, but not with Brazilians. There seemed to be sailors there from every country with a seaboard. There were s
tiff blond Swedes and Norwegians, a crowd of drunk Greeks in the corner, some Dutchmen, a pack of Frenchmen arguing with Spaniards, blank-faced masticating Americans, and a good many small dark-eyed dangerous-looking men of unplaceable nationality. By the door, stroking his long moustache, stood a nervous Brazilian policeman.

  'I say!' I exclaimed. I stared at the place like a child brought up to Town to see the lights. 'It looks a bit tough, doesn't it?'

  'The Santos waterfront is the toughest in the world,' Archer said lightly. 'That's why we're sitting near the door. If anything starts don't wait to see what it's all about, but hop it. They have a habit of arresting everyone in sight down here. Ever been in jail?'

  'Not yet.'

  'This isn't the place to start. I got pinched two years ago for being drunk. They let me go next morning, luckily. Had to rub shoulders with some pretty queer birds. None of this single cell and bath business you get in Britain.'

  A Brazilian girl, dark and rounded, in a black dress and a decorative lace apron came upon us.

  'Trкs cerveja,' Trail said.

  'Sure, baby.'

  She strolled off, giving us the benefit of her hips.

  'She brings the beer,' Trail explained. 'If you like you can dance with her. Look over there.'

  There were about twenty of the girl's colleagues in the room, all similarly dressed. I watched one at the table next to ours being asked for a dance by an American, who used the technique of slapping her on the bottom and grabbing her arm as she passed. The girl smiled acquiescence, and they took the floor.

  The band played only sambas and rumbas. The polite versions of these dances produced in London restaurants have the same relationship to Santos sambas as vintage Burgundy to raw applejack. Similarly with the dancing. The Brazilian girls, though languid in daytime, come to life like flashing electric signs at nightfall. Not only do they dance lustily, but they do so without any inhibitions whatever. If any couple in London were seen performing in the manner accepted as normally sociable in Brazil, they would be immediately asked to leave.

  The girl brought our beers and opened them. Trail handed her a hundred-cruzeiro note and pinched her bottom. She grinned at him. I wondered what would have happened if he had tried the same technique in a Lyons' teashop.

  'Don't reckon well stay here long,' Trail said, 'It's getting on. How do you like Brazilian beer?'

  'It tastes like soapy water to me.'

  'It carries a kick in it somewhere. Finish it up, we've got to look in at the Bidu.'

  'Saw a chap get killed outside there last trip,' Archer said to me.

  The Bidu Bar was exactly the same as the Ritz except that the signs round the walls were in Portuguese and the girls were fatter.

  We didn't stay long. We had a couple more beers and left. Trail rubbed his hands. 'And now,' he said, 'for the Whores' Ball.'

  The function to which Trail was so attracted was held on the top floor of an old building on one of the side streets. We could hear the music, the inescapable samba, blaring down the street from the open windows before turned the corner. The way in was through a narrow door with TAXI DANCING painted over the top of it and up a long, narrow, unbroken flight of stairs. At the foot of the stairs was a ticket office, inside which a fat man in his vest was barred up like the crown jewels.

  We paid, and mounted the staircase. At the top were two solemn policemen, who immediately advanced on us. Archer's remarks about the carelessness of the police in arresting people flashed into my mind. I jumped nervously and began to walk backwards down the stairs.

  'Don't be alarmed,' Archer said. 'In England you leave your hat and coat, don't you?'

  By that time a policeman had grabbed hold of me, pulled aside my arms, and searched me for weapons. I caught sight of a table behind him that explained Archer's remarks. On it was neatly arranged a collection of revolvers, knives, blackjacks, knuckle-dusters, and razors.

  'The Brazilian likes going around with a bit of cutlery in his belt,' Trail explained. 'Makes him feel big. Unfortunately he tends to be a bit on the excited side. These cops sometimes miss a knife or two, so we'd better keep near the windows. Don't mind a jump, do you?'

  We went inside. Three girls immediately came up to us and told us they loved us. Trail waved them aside. 'We came to hear the music,' he told them affably.

  We strode across the floor and sat down. It was bigger than the American Bar and had more space for dancing. The walls were bare of any decoration and the floor was rough boards polished only by the customers' feet. There were tables scattered round the floor, and girls scattered round the tables. The atmosphere was like a laundry with a breakdown in the ventilating system.

  At one end was the band-on a platform six feet above the floor and surrounded by barbed wire.

  'What's the barricade for?' I asked.

  'If they dislike the music here they don't hide their feelings,' Trail explained.

  'What about all these girls? What do they do?'

  'If you pay fifty cruzeiros you'll find out.'

  'Oh, I see. Let's have some beer.'

  We sat and drank and watched the dancing. It was the sort that Trail described as 'the bumps and grinds.' I looked nervously at men sitting at the other tables, with an expectant sensation between my shoulder-blades. When they saw a girl they fancied they grabbed her and joined the jactitating couples on the floor. After the dance they either went off with her, dragged her back to their own tables, or left her, according to the strength of their inclination. I saw a party of our Liverpool greasers in the corner, their shirts unbuttoned and outside their trousers, throwing Merseyside witticisms at their neighbours. Everyone seemed to be having a good time.

  A warm brunette descended on my knee.

  'Hallo darling!' she said. 'You come wit' me?'

  'No!'

  She laughed and ruffled my hair.

  'You dance wit' me, no?'

  'Go on, Doc,' Archer called. 'Give the girls a treat.'

  'But I can't dance.'

  'Come on, darling,' said the girl. She snatched hold of me and pulled me out of my chair. Then she clapped me to her bosom like a belladonna plaster and pushed me on the dance floor.

  We jostled with the rest of the dancers. It was like being lashed to an upholstered pneumatic drill. I struggled round in her clammy embrace, trying to keep my feet, wriggling out of other men's way, and reflecting that I was a long way from home.

  When the music stopped I disengaged myself and looked for our table. By this time the Third was talking earnestly to a thin, brown girl who had taken my chair.

  'Thirty cruzeiros,' he said forcefully. 'Trinta. See?' He held up three fingers.

  She shook her head. 'No!' she insisted. 'Cincoenta. Fifty, fifty, fifty!'

  'Oh hell,' the Third said. 'Let's get out of here.'

  We trooped down the stairs. 'Where now?' Archer asked when we were in the street.

  'Madame Mimi's,' Trail said with finality. 'It's the only place where you can get a decent bottle of beer in town.'

  'I think I'm going back to the ship,' I said.

  'Come on, Doc! You don't have to sample the goods. Besides you'd get knifed walking back alone. Where is it, Second? Somewhere near the Rua Bittencourt, I think…'

  He led us along threatening unlighted streets, where the pedestrians shuffled guiltily in the shadows like large rats.

  'I think this is the number,' he said, stopping by the heavy door of an unlighted house. 'You fellows stay here and I'll go and see.'

  He jumped up the steps and rang the bell. After a minute or so I saw him jab it again. The door opened. An old woman with her hair tied in a handkerchief stood against the inside light.

  'Boa noite, senhora,' Trail began. He held a conversation in Portuguese with her, and I saw that he spoke the language rapidly and with great force, but unintelligibly. After he had delivered a string of sentences embellished heavily with gestures she held up a finger and disappeared to fetch help. A tall man in a dressing-gown
came back with her. After a few words he pushed the Third abruptly down the steps, delivered a few hostile sentences, and slammed the door.

  'Wrong place,' Trail explained, picking himself up. 'That seems to be the dentist's. It must be the house on the other corner.'

  At the next door we were received with pleasure and shown immediately into the parlour.

  Madame Mimi's was a sedate establishment. The parlour was furnished in the austere, grubby style popular with the Continental middle-class; it was a large apartment with big shuttered windows, containing several small tables and a larger one in the corner where Madame sat with three or four of her charges. On a dark, broken sideboard down one side were two unlighted candelabras, a sickly-looking plant, and a radio. Round the walls were pictures of the saints. Business was poor, and the room was quiet and inactive. One felt one had called on the vicar's daughters for tea.

  Madame immediately recognized my companions and greeted them warmly.

  'Ah, hello my little boys! Back so soon, eh? How goes it in cold England?'

  She embraced the two of them. She was a big, over-powdered woman in a black dress, with a figure like a thawing snowman.

  Not so dusty,' Archer said. 'Meet one of our shipmates.'

  We embraced.

  'Madame is a wonderful character,' Trail explained. 'Hails from France originally. She built up her own team here like a football manager.'

  Now, boys,' Madame said. 'You would like some beer, no?'

  'Lay it on, Madame,' Archer said, sitting down and slapping his knee. 'Lay on everything.'

  Madame clapped her hands.

  'Is that little girl Dina still here?' Trail asked.

  Our hostess shrugged her shoulders powerfully.